Shadows & Sorcery #212
It seems like it's barely been a week since the last Shadows & Sorcery!
Which it has!
So, a three-part tale this week, friends. Some rich, dank, flavoursome lore to get you up to speed with this strange new world before we delve into the main event. Soak it in.
Last week’s S&S was a classic triple bill of standalone tales, and a fine set they were! If you missed them, just got here, or want to read em again, you can do so right here.
This week, we learn the ancient history behind the Spires of Magic, we travel to learn the story behind the Western Spires, and lastly we delve deep into the eerie Ruins of the Spires…
Spires of Magic
Fragments of myth that survive buried within layers of later legends describe their descent—and it is always a descent. They came, piercing first the heavens, and then the earth. In some tales it was with a great crack of thunder, in others it set the sky ablaze or caused a great frigid ruination, and in other tales still, they slid with neither sound nor fury from the firmament, and nestled into the earth. Whatever their origin, across the whole of the world, great clusters of spires look as if they held up the sky. The ages have stained them every shade of moss and lichen and storm, but in places their glassy, dull pearlescence shines through regardless, a thing unlike aught in the realms which came to crowd about them.
In the beginning, squat, bent creatures approached the spires, which were even then old, drawn by the swirling shapes and colours which swam about the upper air, and found themselves fired with eldritch forces. Thus was formed a bond, a fascination, an obsession, a need, which has never broken. Among those primal beings, those upon whom the arcana rained greatest soon learned what it meant to wield power. Ancient shamans, wizards, wonderworkers, these things and more, believed either blessed by gods, or as gods themselves, gathered wandering tribes to them and ruled first as bloodthirsty warbands, then as ascendant chiefdoms, and then as iron-fisted kingdoms. Those hunched things which ranged across the elder earth developed into the first humans, but in truth, little has changed since those days of old.
From a clash of steel might a blaze of flame erupt, from a bellowed challenge might stone crack, from an eye fixed with hatred might a heart suddenly burst—the flesh and bone and brains of every human being was awash with holy sorcery from the sky, and through might of will and strength of blessing it could be channelled into actions to make them, as went the parlance, magical. The power, the arcana from the sky, soaked into the very core of their species, and every human being was capable of exerting this gift from an early age, as the mind and body began to develop, and though suppressed by force, loyalty, and fear of kings and masters, it could never be stopped. It let mankind create beyond their primitive means, and it also let them destroy just as well. It was thought manifest, every action made more potent by the welling up of feeling, often involuntary, or by the supreme focus of will. Alas, this power was far from equal in its distribution, and those burdened by what were seen as weak wills often secretly bathed in radiance to attain greater power, if only for a short time. But sometimes, it was enough.
Western Spires
It was an aeon-weighted kingdom built atop kingdoms, a hive of sprawling, snaking streets like chasms between squalid tenements, toppling, half-ruined palaces, and innumerable temples ranging from barren shells housing piles of idols to entire complexes with nameless, secret inner chambers. It was one of many, but it was the greatest. The kingdom clambered up the side of its spire like a brace of creeping vines, and spread out like beds of lichen, each cluster a petty realm unto itself. And above it all, light bled in iridescent waves from the sundered sky, the source of all light, heat, and magic.
It was a superstitious kingdom of wizard-priests who told of mighty beings beyond the sky, and fashioned their images in the throes of ritual madness or within sealed and lightless chambers, believed by all to be the very faces and shapes of those beyond. Elsewhere, they were hewn in their hundreds by the hands of slaves and supplicants under the guidance of a commanding, sealed anchorite whose eyes remained transfixed upon the sky until the end of their lives. It was always they who enacted the wills of the gods, who spoke for them or could speak to them, and who received the greatest share of their blessings.
It was a savage kingdom of sorcerer-warlords who, born under auspicious skies to auspicious and arcana-soaked bloodlines, rose and fell in perpetual battle, the cracked stone streets either awash with blood, or suddenly awaking to the tread of soldiers under a new banner. But no matter who rose, they always did so with the spires in their eyes: the source of the only power that truly mattered, against which the glorious capital was a distant and meagre prize. Yet those who held it had the favour of the gods, and the might to be their instrument.
Life abounded within, between, and beyond the walls. Hard fought, rough, decadent, indulgent, violent, and bursting with mirth, all in equal measure. It was life painted in vivid hues with lurid details, and where in other lands with other spires, they might cry of sin and atonement, amongst the western spires, and among this mightiest of kingdoms, there was only the twisting tapestry of great deeds and vengeance.
Ruins of the Spires
She was a cutthroat from the tangle of half-crumbling alleys and sunken ruins that ran especially deep in the all but lawless northern sector of the capital. She knew not where she was born, save that she had been raised by a succession of thieves, hired killers, priests, prostitutes, and gangers for the thirty-odd years of her existence. She had not been raised with mercy, she had fought to earn her keep wherever she had lain her head—but the labyrinth of the capital was not so dark that she had neither those she considered kith or kin. Indeed, in time she had gathered about her a respectable posse, and have even gotten a number of them to find legitimate work as hired swords and sorcerers. She herself had always hid remarkably well her scarcity of divine gift, and as such never became a boss. But there were perks to be found in the immediately lower ranks of street life, namely a certain independence and freedom to forge an identity outside of the gangs and squalor.
He was a bandit from the sparse spread of rolling hills and grim hovels on the realm’s outermost limits, where the capital’s spire ever rose into the sky at a distance. He knew not where he was born, save that he had been passed from clan to clan, houseless, nameless, and ever battling for a niche to call his own in his thirty-odd years of existence. He had been raised without mercy, fighting to earn his keep in whatever camp or yurt he might lay his head—but the bandit tribes of the hinterlands were not so fierce that he did not earn respect from the younger slayers, and even a measure of admiration from the veteran raiders. Indeed, he was always among the first voices to dare to lead a charge, and more often than not, strike forces sought him out for his skills in battle. He had hid with dextrous swordwork and savage axe-fighting his scarcity of divine gift, a thing which had forever held him back from becoming a clanhead. But there were perks to be found in the lower ranks of the bandit clans, namely a certain independence and freedom to forge an identity outside of a life of robbery and murder.
Their meeting was as unlikely as makes for the best legends. The petty kingdoms had ever been a novelty for him to wander through as one little more than a barbarian, marvelling at the curious sights, the smells, the people, and the sorcery which filled every waking moment. Duels erupted between rakish nobles, scraping ragged sword edges in fearsome displays until a squadron of guards or soldiers pummelled them both into submission, and merchants of a thousand dubious kinds wade their wares sparkle in a way that never failed to catch his eye. So after a mighty haul, over which veterans and clanheads would squabble for a fortnight, he rode through the hills to the spire around which the capital clambered. But once within the gates, he was rushed at every angle from eagre priests, urchins, petty sellers of wares, and long-lashed women who offered whatever his flesh desired. Alas, he was swiftly lost within the shadowed back streets, and it was by a pack of looming shadows did he find himself trapped, only for them to falter, and emerge from their gathered darkness to show themselves—and the first who did looked for all the world like he did.
He never returned to the bandit clans, and she never returned to the gang dens, but to them both came their closest friends and allies, believing the reunion between the twins to be nothing less than divine visitation. Together, they earned their reputation first in the underworld as a mercenary band, then in the dungeons as guardians, and then in the streets of the cities as the swordarms of warlords. And then came something as unlikely as their meeting, which was to leave a mark on the city forevermore.
There was not a soul alive, or who had ever been alive, that did not consider the very core of the Innermost Temple to be holy ground. The boundless bloodthirst and greed of a hundred would-be tyrants had been stopped dead in its tracks, and few of even the most righteous firebrands considered themselves pure enough to even gaze upon it. Anchorites sealed themselves in cells around it—the absolute center was as much a catacombs as as a temple. This was because, here, the very stone of the city touched the spire itself. The twins, though risen highly in life and egos swollen with accomplishment, felt humbled by its presence. A blind monk, their guide, crept backwards from this holy of holies upon his hands and knees. The spires loomed over all the world, and they had not been blessed as others had. They had fought to prove themselves at every step of their lives, and it was they who had been approached by no less than the current king’s own honour guard with an offer to prove their worth once for and all. Their reputation had preceded them. But, they also knew, they were expendable. And with that offer came the threat of silent death if they even intimated a notion of it to any living soul.
Before them, the smooth surface of the spire, unbroken and unmarred in its dull, glassy opalesence...save for one gaping rent that yawned like an open wound. Its edges were ruddy and flaking, almost like the rot that beset blades of iron. It looked to them as if it had almost crumbled inwards. The commander of the king’s guard hadn’t said much, just that it had happened, that the anchorites were heard to wail and scrabble about in their lightless cells, and that absolutely no one dared approach it for far too many reasons to count. All but the twins. They had aught to gain, indeed.
They could not have possibly imagined in their wildest dreams of lotus leaf or moonshine what would be revealed to them.
They knew tricks from their lives of battle and plunder, and even as poorly gifted as they were, they knew how to focus the eyes to make the darkness within recede before them. Revealed to them first was a great, sprawling, twisting tangle of what they could only understand as roots, vines, and cords of prodigious thickness, many of them black, or mostly black—stained, they seemed, and touching them, this residue came away to show what looked like silver beneath, or perhaps a high quality, polished iron. But there were also ones whose innards showed, and they resembled thin strands of bronze. When touched, they buzzed, and the sister drew her hand back with a hiss when she felt it. Blades drawn, they continued, following these iron intestines down tall hallways of metal—entire sheets of it entirely unbroken, unsectioned, broken only by ribbed downward slopes, ridged intersections, and inclines leading into high, cramped passages they found it difficult to traverse. In places, there seemed, in their heads, parts of the place missing, and they were forced to drop and climb to other areas.
There was, they noticed when they had first entered, a stench like a smithy’s on a hot day, but it had taken some time before they became aware of its source: a continuous streaming and oozing of a black, viscous slime from every little space and niche and gap possible. In fact, it only got worse the further in they went. Their eyes had begun to strain, and they wondered then if a fire might be lit somehow between them, or if some power could be conjured for it. They hadn’t to fear, though, for new things appeared to them then.
They looked like glass or enamel, or perhaps highly glazed ceramic. They flickered, and if studied for long enough, shapes or designs could be seen, flitting about, repeating, flowing. Master artisans with prodigious blessings might create such a thing in the city once in several lifetimes. But there were entire walls of these. If the shapes were a language, the twins could not read it. There were lights within it at any rate, fires of some kind—which meant, of course, someone, or something, was maintaining this place. And perhaps was ready to emerge. Why they first felt fear at this revelation, rather than awe or excitement, they would have put down to their sheer nervous excitement. But not too long later, the first bones appeared. And they were not human. The twins shared a look. How long had they spent so close to death? How many had they cut down, both before and after they reunited? How many fields and chambers of slaughter had they known? Aye, this was a place of death. This spire, this holy spire, source of their city and of all the world’s might and glory, was a thing of death, and had mouldered with it for aeons beyond count, right in front of them. They pushed deeper, hungry for truth.
The bones grew in profusion, half drowned in some places by that oozing black ichor, stained and rotting. They were piled high in some places, like, they mused to each other, these beings—these gods? Whatever they were, they died trying to escape, was their guess. What had killed them, though? It certainly wasn’t time. War? Had some great series of divine battles raged just beyond sight? And for how long? Was that rotten gash in the spire wall the result of a war they had just stepped into? They held their blades tight, following where there were lights and where the streams of ichor were lowest, but it had evidently pooled, flooded, and overflowed scores of times over. The general interior of the place had remained uniform, too. Passages were either like chasms in their breadth, or they were slender, fit most likely for the flesh of the things that littered just about every chamber and hallway. The naked growths of the overlapping silvery cords or veins or whatever they were remained, and some were badly damaged. They fizzed a curious pale blue flickering flame and sparks. They converged, too, about things they assumed were some kind of artisan’s stations or scholar’s podiums. Altars perhaps. Gods of the gods? Now there was a thought. They had similar blinking glass or glazing, and all kinds of tools or instruments they frankly couldn’t get a decent grip on, no matter what way they held them, and how much magic they used trying to do it.
Just as the darkness began to grow around them, in a passageway outside of the cool lights, something moved. Each threw a hand out to the other to stop them, but in the end, the brother deferred to his sister’s skills as a sneak. She slunk forward, her feet sliding through the gritty, oily residue on the smooth metal flooring. She focused her eyes—and leapt back, hissing through her teeth, as a slender shape showed itself and there was an instantaneous flash like a high noon streak of astral light and a roar like that of a thunderbolt. It was followed by several more, thrown forth with screeches, making the oil sizzle and smoke, the stench suddenly flooding their lungs. One of the shafts of light found its mark in the brother’s leg, but he did not bleed. Instead, the flesh was blackened and charred like a cauterized wound. He roared with pain all the same as his sister flew forward, her sword point meeting she knew not what. It was armoured, heavily, more than she had ever seen anyone wear armour, and her blade clanged from it. Yet, it looked injured. Broken. Like the coils and vines on the walls, plainly it was damaged, and veins drooped out of it, spitting that same pale blue flame. Things looked missing, and other parts yet dragged behind it as it pulled itself along on strange limbs that looked somewhere between exposed bones and the carapaces of insects. Bits of it moved where she felt there should be flesh. Shuddering with disgust, she got it to turn and follow her, keeping close to it, drawing down a dozen passages while her brother caught up.
It came around a bend seeking her, and she steeled herself as she sprung forward, looking for the gaps in the armour she knew must exist. It had eyes, she assumed, and they turned to her. There was no hate. No hunger. No rage or bloodthirst. Nothing at all. Just a dim light that flickered as the screaming bolts continued to be loosed. What may have amounted to its head was a curved thing, snout-like, and had an underside. She decided to try there while her brother came bounding forth awkwardly, his magic in his steps. There was rage in his eyes, alright. She yelled to him to aim under the gullet, and as she dropped down, he slid, and their blades were thrust forward with magic behind them, turning what would have been clumsy stabs in the dark into piercing fangs that sheared clean through the beast’s iron flesh.
Alas, when the mist of battle cleared, they found themselves at first turned around, then hopelessly lost. Every passage looked the same. The oozing black ichor covered any tracks they may have made. So, they continued, into the bowels, whether or above or below, they could no longer tell. There was something oppressive about the featureless uniformity of their surroundings, about the close, cloying silence which let no sound travel, the stench which scratched at their throats every breath—all of it made their minds scream with a terror they could neither name nor place. For beings of a world of light, sound, blood, heat, battle, song, love, and death, this desolate metal world had dulled their awe with its weight on their souls. They expected no more monsters. In truth, they were afraid they would neither see nor hear a single other animate thing for as long as they wandered these halls. And they didn’t know if that was ever going to end.
Three full days passed when the commander of the king’s honour guard was raced to the Innermost Temple by a loyal slave. Two figures lay upon the stone floor, shivering, weak of limb, starving, and faces streaked with tears. An anchorite was unsealed within seconds to apply healing arts to them, and then sent for sacrifice. In quick order they were taken then somewhere else for recovery and interrogation. The brother was unable to speak, and screamed in his sleep for the next twenty nights. The sister explained, in few words, that quite simply, they got separated after a fall, and in the midst of frantic searching in the dark, she found her brother in a space like a vast silver cavern so great it seemed to have its own sky. It was full of...she couldn’t rightly describe it. Glass everywhere. Shattered. Sundered metal. Mist in the air. Cold. Shaped metal, ribbed and coiled, dented and bent as if with extreme violence. She found her brother shaking a short ways from something that glowed in the darkness. He tried to get her away, but she saw it. And she had come to understand. Not everything there was broken. Some things had survived the countless epochs. What was it, those who asked demanded. All she would do was groan as if ill, and put her head in her hands. But she was bid speak, and given the time to do so.
“Bodies. Drowned, or...kept, in great glass jars. Cords and things coming out of them. Squat, bent things. Shrivelled. Gnarled. But for all that, they looked like people.”